


A Case of Curiosity

by Forever_the_Dreamer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bisexual John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drinking, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Mycroft Holmes, Gay Sherlock, High School, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Mysterious Sherlock, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-08 20:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13466121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forever_the_Dreamer/pseuds/Forever_the_Dreamer
Summary: With the life of his school's website in his hands, John is tasked with blogging about his daily life. Which would be a lot easier if not for a mysterious admirer, a rugby scholarship on the line, and a mysterious, handsome new friend who, for unfathomable reasons, everyone else seems to hate.





	1. John Watson's Posting Reign Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm so unbelievably stoked for you all to read this—it's my first ever fic that I'm attempting to actually publicize, so you'll have to pardon me a bit if I don't quite have the hang of it yet. I'll try to post a new chapter at least once a week, but this first chapter (which hasn't been fully beta read yet, but will be within a day or two) was a somewhat extemporaneous composition, so who knows how long it will take me to write the others. Anywho, I sincerely hope you all enjoy this piece, and feel free to leave comments, ask questions, or point out grammatical errors!
> 
> P.S. Apologies if the summary was misleading. This work is written as John Watson's stream of consciousness, rather than as a collection of "found" documents. I will be updating it to something more appropriate as the chapters go along. The title is also a WIP, so let me know if you have any ideas.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

John Watson thrummed his pencil on his desk absent-mindedly as he watched the classroom clock tick down the minutes until he could finally leave this god-forsaken Journalism I class and get out on the field. Due to an unfortunately long string of torrential downpours, it had been almost a week since the rugby team had worked on their plays, leaving John feeling restless and anxious, especially given the upcoming match against their school’s top rival.

_Five minutes. Four minutes. Three minutes…_

The teacher prattled on about something regarding the next week’s assignment, but John found he couldn’t care less. He really should have been paying attention given his grade in the class, but all he could think about were the new plays he had thought up during the team’s time off and the drills they would have to run to get back in shape. They needed to beat their rival, no matter the cost. He may have only been in year 11, but John knew that college scouts were already keeping an eye out for promising students to recruit and the only way he’d be able to afford uni, sans serving time in the military, would be through a rugby scholarship. He had a solid team, though. They’d pull through if he needed them to.

_One minute…_

Nearly time to leave and get out on the pitch, where he could work out all his nervous energy. The thought of letting himself run loose for a few hours, working his muscles to their fullest extent and his heart to a healthy pound, was almost therapeutic. In fact, it was so therapeutic that he only barely caught the tail end of his teacher’s address to him.

“Okay, John?” Ms. Thompson gave him a pointed look.

John felt the beginnings of a red-hot flush curling up the back of his neck “Wh- yes, of course” came his rushed reply, followed by a good-natured chuckle from several of his classmates, sympathetic to his distraction.

“I was asking if you could stay after class for a moment.”

_Thirty seconds…_

He was so close, he could practically have packed up then and there and been out the door the moment the bell rang. But now, it seemed it would have to be a bit longer before he could finally get his energy out. With slight resignation and only a brief pause, John repeated “Yes, of course.”

Ms. Thompson nodded and redirected her attention to the rest of the class, “Don’t forget, your creative writing articles are due next Tuesday!” and then the bell rang and within moments it was just John and the Journalism I teacher left in the classroom.

Having packed his (albeit few) supplies into his worn-out backpack, John approached Ms. Thompson’s desk where his teacher sat, typing out an email or something of the sorts on her laptop. After a moment, she cleared her throat and redirected her attention to the student standing in front of her.

“John, as you are aware, your grades in my class have not exactly been stellar.”

John shifted his weight a bit and pushed his backpack further up his shoulder, “is this about the interview article? That was a one-time thing, I swear it won’t-”

“Not exactly,” Ms. Thompson cut him off, glancing back at her computer for a moment before turning back to John, “if the school newspaper’s website doesn’t start pulling in more traffic soon, the school board is going to shut it down.”

“That’s awful, but what does that have to do with me?”

The Journalism teacher took a deep breath before continuing, “I understand you’re quite popular amongst the students here. They look up to you, are interested in your life.”

John tilted his head to the side and cocked an eyebrow. “Well, that tends to happen when you’re the captain of a winning rugby team.”

Ms. Thompson let out a huff. “It’s more than that, John. You’re a leader, someone who makes them feel looked-after and cared for.”

Unsure how to reply to that, John hummed noncommittally and glanced back at the clock. _Three minutes late already…_

Noticing John’s antsiness, Ms. Thompson went straight to her point, “I want to give you your own page on the website.”

_What?_ John’s attention focused fully on what the individual in front of him had just said. “Ms. Thompson, you and I both know that I’m a bloody awful writer…”

“—which is exactly why I can count this assignment as extra credit. Writing once a day or so will give you a chance to exercise your writing skills, especially since you’ll be writing for the public eye.”

Extra credit. Now that was something John really needed, especially in this class. But still… “What would I even write about?”

“Your life. Your experiences at school and on the field. Your thoughts about current events or things that the student body should know about. Essentially, you.” Ms. Thompson paused a moment and searched John’s expression, evidently hoping to glean from it something regarding his stance on the issue. When she found nothing, she continued, “As we’ve already established, the student body looks up to you. If you post something about your life, chances are your fellow students are going to take an interest in it. Now, if we put those posts on the school newspaper’s website, the site itself will gain the traffic it needs from your ‘groupies,’” John winced at the word, “thus saving it from being shut down.”

John paused a moment, considering Ms. Thompson’s offer, before replying, “I’m not sure how well it’ll work, but that’s a clever plan.”

A smirk tugged at Ms. Thompson’s lips, “thanks, but I can’t take the credit for it. One of my other students came up with the idea. Brilliant writer, that boy is, but he doesn’t seem fond of publicising it. Anyway, if you do this and help raise the website’s traffic enough to save the site, I’ll raise you a full letter grade.”

John smirked. “You have a deal.”

A flurry of footfalls resounded from down the hall outside of the classroom, heralding the arrival of another student. Within seconds, a sturdily-built powerhouse of a boy with prematurely greying roots burst into the doorway, “Watson, what are you doing in here? The team’s already out at practice warming up, and we can’t start the plays without our captain! Oh, hello Ms. Thompson!”

Ms. Thompson offered a warm smile. “Hello, Greg.”

Greg turned his attention back to John. “Why are you just sitting there? Come on, let’s go! Of course, if that’s alright with you, Ms. Thompson.”

Ms. Thompson glanced back at John. “Yes, of course. We just finished.”

John nodded to his teacher before jogging to the doorway to meet Greg. “Thanks, Ms. Thompson!”

“I’ll get the page up and send you the link to edit it. Your posting reign begins tonight!”

“Will do!” John shot over his shoulder as he took off with Greg down the hallway towards the locker rooms.

“What’s that all about?” Greg inquired as he hastily pulled on his exercise equipment, breath unfazed by the brief sprint.

“The school newspaper’s website is gonna be shut down if it doesn’t start getting more traffic, so I officially have my own page, since I’m apparently popular and the student body ‘looks up to me’” John tugged his grey rugby workout top on over his muss of blonde hair, adding air quotes to accentuate his last point. Greg laughed heartily in response and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Well of course they look up to you! You’re the captain of the winningest rugby team in the area!”

John winced. “Yeah, sorry about that again. This is your last year, it really should have gone to you.”

Greg pulled a face and grabbed his equipment. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. You’re doing a much better job with these tossers than I ever could. Now grab your stuff and let’s go! We gotta practice while the rain’s still holding off!”

John grunted an agreement, pulled his last shoe on, and sprinted out of the locker room and onto the playing field alongside Greg. As his teammates noticed his arrival, several called out crude greetings, while the rest made jibes at his tardiness.

“Yeah, well let’s put your energy where your mouth is. I hope your sorry arses didn’t skip out on gym days during our rain-cation, because we’re going hardcore today.” Several of his teammates groaned sarcastically as they lined up on the field for their warm-up jogs. “Hey, you all just earned yourself an extra ten burpees.” He joked, meeting them at the line to call the first warm-up group. “Alright, let’s go!”

***

Four hours later, the team found themselves back in the locker rooms, drenched in a mixture of sweat and mud, due to the onslaught of another torrential downpour a couple of hours into practice. They all smelled awful, but spirits were high as they showered and changed back into day-clothes to go home.

“Watson!” Greg called from the other end of the locker room, encouraging a chorus of masculine attempts at a singsong imitation of his call to flow through the ruggers.

“You bloody tossers.” John threw to his teammates as he jogged in his fresh gear over to Greg and Mike, a stoutly-built rugger with a penchant for romance, particularly when it meant setting other people up. “What’s up?” he greeted once he met them.

Mike faced him with an eager and scheming glint in his eye, “You have an admirer.”

_What?_ “I have a… what?”

“An admirer!” Mike exclaimed, smiling with a bit too much excitement.

“Ooh, our little Johnny boy is growing up so fast!” came a voice from somewhere amongst the half-naked team.

“Oi, shut up!” John shot back jokingly before turning back to Mike and Greg, “How do you… who is it?”

Greg shrugged. “Beats me. They left this note.” He handed John a small piece of paper, torn from the inside of a notebook. The edges were a bit rugged, but meticulously straight, indicating that whoever who had torn it out had spent some effort to make the note seem presentable. A brief message was scrawled in the middle of the page:

_John,_

_I like you. Would you like to meet up for_

_a brief meal and some light conversation?_

_8pm next Friday at Speedy’s_

“A bit unorthodox, but that’s sweet.” John mused as he finished looking over the note.

“You know, I bet it’s Mary Morstan. She had her eye on you throughout all of last year.” Mike postulated with growing excitement.

John looked at Mike skeptically, “What? She didn’t-” he was cut off by Mike raising his eyebrows. Greg nodded, agreeing with Mike. “Well, okay…”

Mike gestured for the paper, “John, she was all over you in Biology. Trust me.” As Mike took another look at the note,  John recalled the incidents Mike was referring to. Whenever the class was told to pair off for a lab assignment, Mary always immediately piped up and asked John to be her partner. She’d knock hands with him unnecessarily while they were working with the slides and the microscopes, laugh at all of his jokes, and ask him about his life and how he was really doing. Thankfully, she never tried to dumb herself down for him, though. She was consistent in her representation of herself and evidently really cared about him, not just his school status or what was in his pants. He never minded spending time with Mary, but couldn’t really picture himself dating her. Although…

“You going to meet up with her?” Greg interrupted his thoughts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Mike brought his gaze up to look at John, evidently wondering the same thing. John considered it for a moment before taking a deep breath.

“Well, it couldn’t hurt…”

“Hey! There’s our boy!” Greg exclaimed boisterously. Mike turned to the rest of the locker room,

“Looks like our little boy’s got a date with one Miss Mary Morstan next Friday after our game!” The locker room erupted in cheers and cries of manly glee.

“Get it, John!

”Our little boy!"

“Who’s the bloody tosser now?”

John called back to the latter: “considering I just got a date, I’d say that’s still you!” The ruggers exploded in laugher. It took nearly three minutes before the jibes and exclamations subsided enough for the team to finish cleaning up and redressing, but even then, most of them were still ribbing with one another. Slowly, the boys finished up and headed out, leaving just Greg, Mike, and John to stow away the last of the gear.

“Damn did it feel good to be out on the field again.” John groaned, kneading at the muscles of his shoulder and neck with his hand.

“I know what you mean, it’s been ages.” Mike grunted.

Greg picked up his sweaty uniform and tossed it over his shoulder, wincing, “I skipped so many gym days while it was raining, now I can really feel it.” John grunted a reply before heading to the locker room sinks and splashing his face with cold water. Through a dripping wet face, he called out to the other two,

“Hey, would you guys mind finishing up in here? I’m bloody exhausted, and I really don’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on my way home.” Greg walked behind John to join him at the nextdoor sink, snapping him with his sweaty uniform as he passed. “Oi! Watch it!” Greg laughed,

“Sure, _boss_. I’m sure Mike and I can handle putting a few more pieces of equipment away by ourselves. Right, Mike?”

“Right!” Mike called from somewhere else in the locker room. His voice echoed almost comically. John grabbed a paper towel and dried his face roughly,

“You better! The captain’s counting on you!” He threw the paper towel into the waste bin and headed towards the exit with his bookbag. Mike and Greg both guffawed a response,

“Get outta here!” one of them called, so he did.

The night air hit him like a wall. Brisk, chilly, and somewhat scented of pine, it reminded John that the rugby season was almost over and that winter would be here soon. He paused a moment just outside the exit, taking a deep breath with closed eyes before looking out into the silky black night. _Time to go home._ He centered himself and sauntered onto the sidewalk towards his car, but found his gaze drawn to the brilliant display above his head.

Despite the overcast day, it was a crystal clear night. Stars stretched from one end of the sky to the other, like a quilt of sorts around the Earth. They seemed neverending, never failing. As far out as he could see, there were stars, and he knew that even beyond what he could see were even more stars. Millions, billions, trillions—who could tell? How far did that brilliant expanse stretch? Had anyone ever reached—

His thoughts were interrupted as he ran into a wall.

Or, rather, as he later gathered, another human being. The other boy’s books and papers fell from his arms as he fell backwards. Before he could hit the pavement, however, John snagged his forearm and pulled him back up to his feet. When the boy seemed to have gained his bearings, John smiled at him “sorry about that, I don’t usually run into strangers in the dead of night.”

“It is not the dead of night.” The boy replied. He was looking down at his papers as he said this, but his voice seemed to resonate through and permeate the silky black night, as if a drop of ink spreading through a clear glass of water. It was deep, sonorous, and almost like the night itself. John realized his voice was high and uninteresting in comparison as he, to his surprise, _squeaked_ his reply,

“Yes, well…” he cleared his throat, pretending to get rid of incriminating phlegm. Within an instant, the boy’s eyes were upon him—searching him, studying him, as if a lion after its prey. After a moment, they seemed to latch onto a pressure point.

“You’re the youngest of two siblings. Your older sibling, a sister, has gotten a little too deep into the liquor cabinet recently, and you find yourself constantly there to bail her out and sober her up. Probably because your mother had the same issue. Your father was part of the armed forces—military, was it?—and you have little intention of following in his footsteps, seeing as he’s no longer a part of your life. You’re a C/B-range student but could probably be getting straight A’s if it weren’t for your intense commitment to rugby, quite a shame. You’ve got the makings of a great doctor. ...And now you’re here, walking to your car after practice probably feeling incredibly jaded because it’s the first practice you’ve been to in over a week, and you skipped your gym days.” John stared at him, this boy, _how does he- what?_ His brain wouldn’t restart. The boy watched him in return steadily, guardedly, and with thinly-veiled anxiety. When he realized John wasn’t about to reply, he added slowly, “Now we’re not strangers.”

For some reason, those few words kicked John’s mind back into gear along with his respiratory system which had apparently also agreed to conspire against him. He took a deep breath and looked back at those searching eyes, “That was… brilliant.” The boy brightened up, his guard lowered ever so slightly by the praise. “But I’m afraid I still don’t know you.”

The boy regarded him behind slightly squinted eyelids, his brows furrowed as if in concentration. John could practically see the gears turning in the boy’s head before they clicked to a stop, deciding on some thought or another. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. I’m a year 10 transfer and a Chemistry enthusiast, and I’m typically regarded as a ‘bloody know-it-all.’” His sardonic air quotes around the last few words hit John in the gut. _They must’ve been bloody awful to him at his last school for him to quite literally identify himself by such an ignorant phrase._ Unsure of how to right the wrongs that had already been done to this “Sherlock Holmes,” John opted instead for a smirk.

“Yeah, well hopefully not here. The name’s Watson, John Watson,” he announced in the style of Bond. Sherlock Holmes furrowed his bow.

“Why did you say it like that?” His face was contorted to an almost comical shape of confusion. John let out a bark of laughter before he realized Sherlock Holmes was being completely serious.

“Because that’s how James Bond says it…” No reaction was elicited from the boy. “You know, _James Bond_ the superspy, works for MI6?” Nothing still. Just a blank, mildly confused expression. “With Q and all the gadgets and bad guys and… No? Really?” Sherlock Holmes shrugged.

“Knowledge of a movie, as I’m assuming it is, is useless and tedious. It would take up space in my mind that could otherwise be filled with more useful knowledge.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw them. The Bond movies are timeless, exciting, edge-of-your-seat—” Sherlock just replied with a shrug. “Alright, Sherlock Holmes, one day you’ll see them and you’ll realize how absolutely wrong you are. And then you’ll come crawling back to me to watch them again, because you’ll know that I own the complete boxed set that I could choose to lend to you, should I find myself so inclined. But then I may just find myself remembering this conversation and deciding they’d be better lent to someone who would actually enjoy them. And at that point you’ll find yourself Bondicted with nowhere to go to get your fix, and you’ll rue this day for ruining your chances of ever seeing The Great Bond again.”

Sherlock laughed. An actual laugh, something John imagined didn’t happen all that often for a boy as serious and ‘intellectual’ as him. “Bondicted, really?” John joined in with his own laughter,

“I never said I had good humor.” The two of them stood there for a few moments, laughing at a joke that really probably should not have been as funny as it seemed, simply enjoying the night.

A light breeze stirred up the papers still lying on the ground, reminding the two boys of why they met in the first place. And, with a bit of a start, John realized that his hand was still on Sherlock Holmes’s forearm where he’d snagged him to help him back up. He felt a flush run up the back of his neck and he turned towards the papers, bending to grab them as a means to casually let go of Sherlock Holmes’s arm, meanwhile missing the matching flush temporarily painting Sherlock’s cheeks. The brilliant boy stooped down alongside him to help him gather the papers and notebooks and textbooks strewn in a small heap along their portion of the sidewalk. Within minutes, all of the schoolwork had been righted and returned to its owner. Now, Sherlock Holmes’s arms were once again bulging with the promise of new intellect. John took a step back. The moonlight dancing on Sherlock Holmes’s weightless curls and accented cheeks gave him an almost ethereal look, like the stars had come down from the brilliant night sky to stand there in front of him.

John gave himself a shake as he realized he was staring. Sherlock noticed and smirked lightly. They were within their own little bubble on that perfect, beautiful night. Happy in their own respects to simply stand there with one another, nothing needing to be said nor done. For a moment, John felt—well, he felt at peace. And like he was on an exhilarating chase. Somehow, he realized, he felt both at the same time. The brilliant boy seemed to feel the same. Neither of them was ready to break the moment.

Greg and Mike sure were, though.

They both burst through the locker room exit, chatting loudly about some mishap or other that had occurred in putting away the rest of the gear. Greg noticed John along the sidewalk and raised a hand in greeting, “See you, Watson!” before noticing the man standing next to him. He glanced between the two and gave John a thinly-veiled wary expression. A moment later, Mike did the same. Next to John, Sherlock shuffled his feet almost imperceptibly. _What is going on here?_ John glanced between the three of them for a moment, unable to discern why they regarded each other as they did. Deciding to talk to Greg about it later, he returned the valediction.

“Yeah, see you guys!” And then they were gone, leaving just Sherlock and John once again standing alone on the sidewalk. John turned back towards his new friend, giving him a brief expression of curiosity. In return, he received a sad expression, a cough, and an extended hand.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock dipped his head, “pleasure to meet you Watson. John Watson.” John laughed and took Sherlock Holmes’s hand, accepting his handshake.

“A Bondism. I see I’m already rubbing off on you—I believe we’ll be quite great friends, indeed.” He smiled through the words, excited at the prospect of spending more time with this enigma of an individual. Sherlock, for his part, appeared startled. Those searching eyes returned once again, his brows furrowed.

“Friends…” he trailed off for a moment before returning the smile. “Yes. I believe we will be.” And with that, they parted ways.

***

John flopped down on his bed, slinging his bag onto the ground. What a day it had been. Practice had been rough, especially with the surprise deluge, but it had been good. It had felt wonderful to get his blood pumping, to feel his muscles tightening underneath each step, to exchange jibes and playful insults with his teammates. And now… it was so quiet. His mom hadn’t yet returned from her day job and Harry, his sister, was probably at some club or other, drinking a little too much a little too quickly. Which left just him in his house, alone.

His spare rugby ball was lying on the bedside table next to his head, so he grabbed it and started tossing it up a few times as he thought. At first, his thoughts were entirely occupied by potential plays and workout regimens to try out with the ruggers. Slowly, however, he found himself preoccupied with thoughts of Sherlock Holmes. _I wonder what he looks like during the daytime. Those eyes of his must be even more striking._ He chuckled to himself, recognizing the absurd nature of his thoughts. As his chuckle died down and the quiet grew, however, he found an uneasy feeling settling over his gut.

_Why were Mike and Greg so wary of him? And what was he doing at school so late? I doubt he plays a sport and most extracurriculars end before it gets dark. Maybe he was just studying. The library’s a nice, quiet place to study, and he did seem to have a lot of books._

His rugby ball slipped through his hands and smacked him on the face. “Oof. That’s enough of you.” He set it back on his bedside table and grabbed his phone to check his messages and emails.  
One text message from a younger rugger, asking about the status of the next day’s practice. Another message from a friend in his Chemistry class, letting him know she wouldn’t be at school tomorrow so he’d have to complete their lab by himself. Three emails—two of which were spam from over-advertising universities, and the last of which was from Ms. Thompson:

 

Subject: **_Your Posting Reign Begins_ **

From: **Ella Thompson** < [ ethompson@oakridge.edu ](mailto:ethompson@oakridge.edu)>

Hello John. I have attached the link that should enable you to begin posting. Write your first entry tonight and let me know if you have any issues with the website—it can be a little glitchy. We’ll advertise your page tomorrow over the announcements.

Much thanks,

Ms. Thompson

_1 Attachment:_

[ http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk ](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk)

 

_I suppose this is it, then._ He clicked on the link, and a new tab opened in his browser to his own page. The layout was fairly plain and easy to understand, with a title to match it—“The Personal Blog of John H. Watson.” Without much else to do besides his homework, which he was devoutly deciding to push until the last minute, he decided to begin his first post.

 

Entry date: _November 4, 2017 (08:47 pm)_

Entry title: **John Watson’s Posting Reign Begins**  

Hello, everyone!

Before I get started with my first ever post, I would like to pre-apologize for my writing. It really is pretty bad, but I am hoping that writing every day will make it better.

That being said, let me introduce this page to you. Every day or so, I will post a short excerpt from my day—some funny moment, some reflection on something that happened, something I think we really need to talk about, etc.—just for you all.

I guess it’s kinda like social media, but more one-sided than anything else. Irregardless, I hope you all enjoy it and come back to see my new posts each day. As fun as it is screaming into the dark void of the internet, I’d rather know that there’s someone on the receiving end, making typing this out worth my time. Even just one person. (Well, that’s a lie. I hope more than one person ends up reading this—that would be a bloody shame for all my good jokes to go to waste).

I suppose I should actually discuss something of importance in this post. However—bollocks, I can’t think of anything that would be worth reading. Is it okay if I say that on a school page, “bollocks”? If not, sorry Ms. Thompson. I really tried not to screw it up.

We finally had a rugby practice today. It’s been bloody overcast for the last week or so if you couldn’t tell by my constant wet, squeaky shoes and perpetually damp sweaters, so we haven’t had practice for at least once a week. The ruggers would kill me with jibes if they knew this, but I actually skipped a few gym days while the rain was deciding to drown us all. That can just be our little secret, yeah?

Blimey I already have a secret that I share with the entirety of the dark void that is the internet. Enjoy.

Perhaps that marks a good stopping place for this post.

How do I sign off on this thing? Vloggers usually tell their viewers to subscribe and then put their hands over their camera, but I don’t have a camera here and I don’t believe shoving my hands in front of my computer screen would be of much help to any of you.

I suppose, then, I’ll leave you with this little “inspirational tidbit:”

Stay in vegetables, eat 8 hours of sleep, don’t do exercise, and drink your drugs.

This is John H. (don’t ask, I won’t tell) Watson signing off. Don’t forget to like and subscribe—byeeeee!

P.S. I think it should be known I just covered up my screen for my own personal comedic effect. I feel that tells a lot more about me and my sense of humor than much else can. Ah, well. It’s not funny now that I have to explain it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

John chuckled as he finished up his postscript. He sounded like a dork, but found he did not particularly care all that much. _Here goes nothing._ And with that, his first post had been distributed to the world wide web. Bollocks, he hoped no creepy, middle-aged men would be stalking his page. That would be a bit terrifying.

Determined to take his mind off of his faceless, nonexistent, middle-aged potential fan, John snapped his laptop closed and lied flat on his bed. It would be at least half an hour before his mom got home and could convince him to be productive. Until then….

He let his eyelids flutter shut. In a last strain of conscious thought, he wondered, _how has he never heard of James Bond before?_ And with that, he was out like a light.


	2. Judgement of the Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So sorry for how long this took me to get to. I absolutely love writing this piece, but I've had to prioritize a lot of other work over writing throughout these last few weeks, unfortunately. The next chapter should be up within a week and a half, if all goes well!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter (especially the ending ;)). I do have to warn you all that there is a scene of intense sickness due to drinking towards the end of the third section, so if you're sensitive to mentions of sickness or drinking, be careful of that section.
> 
> I love you all, the first chapter had such huge positive feedback (which makes a slight cameo in the school's reception of John's blog!) and I am so incredibly excicted to see how this story and its reception on AO3 plays out.
> 
> Again, enjoy! Thank you, I love you all so much!

The next time he saw Sherlock Holmes was two days later in the hallway between Calculus and Anatomy. His blog had been an absolute immediate hit, notifications filling his phone every few seconds while he slept. However, not even their incessant buzzing could pull him out of his languid state enough to remind him that he had homework left to do. Oh well. At least his Journalism teacher didn’t seem to mind.

Ms. Thompson had greeted him on that first morning with a sort of exuberance that he had never seen from her before. She chittered excitedly about certain statistics regarding the increase in website traffic that John’s blog had already begun to cause and what its implications could be beyond simply keeping the school newspaper’s website afloat. Something about an increase in awareness leading to an increase in appreciation for the arts… more writers like Maya Angelou, E.B. White, and Margaret Mitchell… writing becoming the new algebra… a bright new era for the intellects of the world…

Honestly, John wanted to share her enthusiasm. He could tell this meant a lot to her, and he loved seeing her passion for the survival of the arts as it lit up her face and animated her hands as she spoke. However, he couldn’t convince his mind to streamline its attention on the conversation facing him. The only thought that decided to grace his mind with its presence at that moment in time was _did Sherlock Holmes read my blog?_

Of course he understood that the prospect of that thought was ludicrous. They had only met for a few moments in the dark on an otherwise completely isolated sidewalk, had only had a single, brief, unremarkable conversation about a frivolous, trivial, inconsequential topic, had only just barely learned each others’ names.

And yet—they shared a conversation under the same brilliant quilt of stars. They spent the time to acquaint themselves with one another, rather than brushing each other off and continuing onto their own ways. They smiled, laughed—it really wasn’t that funny. And his hand…

John’s neck burned to a deep shade of rose as he remembered the brush of Sherlock Holmes’s skin against his own… the cold chill of the air as he pulled back, tried to gain control, attempted to clean up the mess of papers and knowledge strewn around their feet.

Ms. Thompson gave him a semi-knowing smirk. “It’s okay, I understand you don’t share my passion for the finer arts of writing and linguistic composition.” John shook himself out of his daze.

“No, sorry, it’s not that. I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” A genuine, caring smile, “just keep writing brilliant posts like last night’s and we’ll have things running smoothly in no time.”

John returned the smile. “Will do, Ms. Thompson.”

The bell rang, punctuating the end of their discourse. Ms. Thompson glanced toward the door. “You’d better head to class.”

With a nod, John turned his back and headed to Anatomy. “One more thing, John.” Ms. Thompson called over the growing disorder in the hall. John swiveled on his heel and glanced back at his teacher. “‘Bollocks’—” John sucked a light rush of breath through his teeth “perhaps not the best thing to say on a school-moderated blog.” He chuckled self-consciously, dipped his head in agreement, and set his sights on the rest of the day.

Most of his teachers had been dismayed to learn that he hadn’t completed the homework for their class, but were quickly placated when he offered to complete it for the following day. That meant a late night and a few too many coffees for him, but he didn’t mind too much as he desperately needed the extra few points to bring up his GPA.

However, as he glanced out at a familiar figure from behind his open locker door while grabbing his 3-to-4-pound-too-heavy textbook, he wished he had elected to sleep so he didn’t have massive morning-after bags under his eyes. Or at least checked to make sure none of his morning breakfast bar had gotten stuck between his teeth. Oh God, what if his breath smelled like raisins and pecans? He ducked behind his locker door and carded his fingers through his hair a few times, attempting to round up any strays that might have otherwise decided to betray him. Without a mirror, though, he couldn’t tell if any of his efforts were actually helping.

Footsteps drew closer, closer. Distinct, clipped, almost professional.

Shaking, he drew a deep breath in, out. _In, out. In, out. In, out…_

After a moment, it became inevitable. The footsteps were loud now—close, personal. John drew himself up and tried to keep his smile from seeming too excited before faux-casually closing his locker door and leaning on it to face the footsteps’ owner.

He jumped as Mary appeared from behind his locker door. “Bloody hell, Mary!” She simply chuckled and mimicked his position, leaning against the next locker.

“Did you get my note?”

John glanced at her with slight confusion before his brain kicked back into gear. The note in the locker room. Friday night, 8 o’clock, Speedy’s. A date. “Your note—right, yeah.” He couldn’t keep the note of despondence out of his voice. His gaze shifted to behind Mary’s ear, down the hallway where the footsteps had been.

Sherlock Holmes clipped by on the opposite side of the hallway. His gaze only briefly rested on John, brightening up for a moment before settling on Mary and flickering to dejected and then expressionless. He averted his eyes to the stretch in front of him, and within moments he was gone.

Mary studied John vaguely. “If you’re not up for it—”

John snapped his eyes back to the individual in front of him, jolted out of his reverie. Immediately, his social skills kicked back in. “No, God no. Don’t worry about it. Friday, yeah?” The smile returned to Mary’s face.

“Yeah, Friday. So we’re good then?”

John hissed in a quiet breath. “Yes. Definitely. A-okay. Better than okay, good. Great, even. Yeah.” His voice trailed as he realized he was spiraling. Mary noticed his ramblings and chuckled again.

“Awesome. Better, even—amazing.” She pushed herself off of the locker with a last genuine but flirty smile. “Goodbye, John Watson.”

“Yeah, see you.” She walked towards the science wing behind John, but he didn’t turn to watch her leave. Instead, he hoisted his way-too-heavy textbook a slight bit higher on his waist and studied the empty space where one Sherlock Holmes had previously been, willing him back into existence.

Of course, it didn’t work. It was just John standing in the hallway, alone, his back now rested against his locker. The bell rang, indicating the beginning of classes, but John was rooted where he stood. His Anatomy teacher would kill him, he knew, but this logic could not convince his feet to move. He shook his head slowly, practically imperceptibly.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

***

It was raining. Again.

Perhaps he should have canceled practice, but John knew they would have to bring their A-game if they wanted to beat Saunders, their rival, next Friday. Thus, the ruggers found themselves on the muddy field in the middle of the afternoon, slipping and falling every few plays and blinking rapidly to try to keep the rain out of their eyes. Visibility was next to zero beyond a few metres, making passes incredibly difficult, but none of the rugby boys seemed to mind. If anything, the harsh conditions simply heightened their competitive natures, daring them to take their plays one step further.

So they played on, tackling each other roughly, calling out characteristically crude remarks, and dirtying themselves up so much that it was difficult to distinguish between boy and mud. After a few particularly intense practice matches, John called a three-minute water break, earning him a few ironic jokes regarding the weather.

He jogged to the sideline and slowly downed his water bottle, for once not wasting any of it on cooling himself down. Midway through his last mouthful, however, Greg slapped him on the back, causing him to choke out most of what was left. John spluttered onto the ground, adding to the mud.

“Oi, sorry mate!”

“That’s-” John coughed, some of the water still caught in his throat.

Mike bounded up behind Greg, splashing mud with every step. “Johnny Boy!”

John raised a hand in greeting before leaning his hands on his knees and coughing a few more times. Mike and Greg stood next to each other, eying John warily. After a few moments, John stood back up and glanced between the two of them. Something was wrong. “What’s up?”

The two of them passed a quick glance at each other, but Mike was the first to speak. “So… the other night…” Neither of them seemed willing to finish the sentence. _What ‘other night’? Did they find out about the expired tacos?No, I don’t think that’s…_ He studied their expressions. _Okay, definitely not the tacos, then._ John racked his brain. _Blog posts? I didn’t say anything about them, so probably not. Skipping homework? The text from the young rugger? Leaving them early to clean up?_ He glanced between the two of them again. Greg was leaning back a bit in an almost standoffish way, nervous and quite obviously anxious. Mike’s eyebrows were knit together so tightly John could have sworn his grandmother had traveled a few hundred miles just to put that very expression on his friend’s face. Most of all, however, they both looked at him warily.

Warily, like how they had watched Sherlock as if he were some sort of dark force. _Holmes, Sherlock Holmes._ Ah, so that was it.

When it became clear that neither of them were going to posit the conversation, John cleared his throat. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you two: what was up with you guys and Sherlock the other night?”

“John-”

Greg interrupted, “Sherlock Holmes is… an enigmatic individual.” _That’s for sure._ “He’s been known to disappear during the school day for no apparent reason and he’s constantly belittling those around him with his ‘deductions.’” There was that stab of sympathetic pain again.

“Now wait a moment, I don’t think you can-”

Mike butted in, “Do you remember Anderson and Sally from Biology last year?”

“Of course—Anderson couldn’t answer a question to save his life and Sally was constantly interrupting the teacher and boosting herself at others’ expense. Who wouldn’t?”

“Be that as they may, the first time Sherlock met them, he ‘deduced’ that they’d been sleeping together for the last year and a half, unbeknownst to their significant others, and then when Anderson tried to defend himself, Sherlock told him to stop talking because he was ‘lowering the IQ of the whole school.’” John couldn’t help but snort, earning him a hard ribbing from Greg, who looked him straight in the eye.

“There’s something off about that kid—I don’t trust him. Which means that, as your friend, I can’t in good conscience recommend that you... “

Mike finished for him, “... you shouldn’t pursue him.”

John scoffed with a note of incredulity. “I’m not.”

Both Mike and Greg gave him looks that screamed _Oh, please._

“We just want to make sure you’re being careful.”

“Have either of you ever even had a conversation with him?”

“No, but we’ve heard enough…”

John stared at them blankly. “So you’re just going to judge him based on word of mouth?”

Mike shrugged. “Mate, we’re just worried about you.” John scoffed. Greg nodded.

“Yeah, we just want to make sure you end up with someone who can really care about someone as amazing as you. You deserve that.”

“Like Mary!” Mike’s eyes sparkled with thinly-veiled matchmaker excitement.

“Yeah! You have that date with her next Friday after the game. Can you at least just give her a chance?”

“And if you don’t end up liking her, then fine, we’ll drop the whole Sherlock thing and we won’t stand in your way.”

John looked between the two of them, his stomach churning. _Am I pursuing him?_ He blinked at the two of them slowly. “Don’t worry, I already told her I’d be there, and I don’t like to go back on my word.” Without waiting for a response, he whistled to the team and led them back onto the field.

***

The weekend was boring. John’s conversation with Mike and Greg during practice had set him on edge, leading to him ignoring the majority of their messages throughout the following days, including questions about the rugby practice schedule and invitations to hang out. Thus, he found himself again lying on his bed, throwing his rugby ball overhead in thought, catching it with his face more often than he’d like to admit.

He knew it was a bit primary school and a bit angsty teenager, but he couldn’t bring himself to confide in those two after how they had just brushed Sherlock aside without a second thought. John had only had a snippet of time with the boy, but he already knew that Sherlock was so much more than an enigmatic fellow who found pleasure in tearing down those around him. _But still,_ He grabbed his phone. _They were just trying to look after me…_ He glanced at the messages littering the home screen of his phone.

 

 **L-EH-strade** (Friday 21:24)

_Didn’t mean to hurt you. Mike and I are both sorry_

**The Matchmaker** (Friday 21:52)

_Hey mate. Can we talk?_

**L-EH-strade** (Friday 23:12)

_Just wanted to be clear about something…_

**L-EH-strade** (Friday 23:13)

_It’s not cause he’s a bloke._

**The Matchmaker** (Saturday 07:42)

_We shouldn’t have judged him before we got to know him_

**The Matchmaker** (Saturday 07:53)

_But you have to admit, he is a bit odd…_

**L-EH-strade** (Saturday 09:21)

_Mike and I are heading to the gym. Want to join?_

**The Matchmaker** (Saturday 11:42)

_Greg and I just finished; lunch?_

 

John shook his head, his nostrils flaring. Neither of them seemed to understand. One of his hands was still throwing the rugby ball in the air, and after tossing it up one last time, he again caught it with face. “Ungh.” He rubbed his hand over his face, threw his phone to the side, and sat up, noticing his laptop perched precariously at the foot of his bed.

With an ungraceful grunt, he propelled himself towards the laptop, grabbing it after a few tries and then leaning back against his headboard. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on top. He bit the corner of his lips. _What am I doing?_ He opened his laptop and was immediately greeted by a web page, “The Personal Blog of John H. Watson.”

The page had been a tremendous success thus far, drumming up tons of virtual traffic for the school newspaper’s website. However, he’d only been posting about little events that had happened on the daily and little jokes that he thought could brighten his readers’ days. Would any of them even read a more hard-pressing post?

_There’s only one way to find out._

 

Entry date: _November 10, 2017 (12:47 pm)_

Entry title: **Judgement of the Unknown**

 

Hello, everybody! It’s your favorite rugby weirdo, John H. Watson!

It’s been about sixteen hours since my last blog post, I hope you all haven’t missed me too terribly. I know for a fact that you all frequent this site constantly, because I am quite literally always getting notifications that you all are liking and commenting on and sharing my posts. Which I appreciate and am grateful for, really, but does it have to be at 04:37? (I’m looking at you, @WilliamS).

All jibes and jokes aside, I actually wanted to have a serious conversation with you all today. Well, I suppose it really isn’t a conversation, since I haven’t really replied to any of your comments yet, but that’s beside the point.

A few days ago, I made a new friend. We had a bloody amazing conversation which, when we split, left me excited for the next time I would be able to meet him again. However, come yesterday, I was warned by several of my friends about him. They watched me warily, warned me that he was always hurting those around him, told me I shouldn’t pursue a friendship with him. But it turns out they have never personally had a conversation with him.

Pardon me, Mrs. Thompson, but all I can say to that is bloody freaking bollocks.

There is literally no way for you to know a person and what they’re like without spending time with them. Any opinion you have of them otherwise is based on rumour and supposition, not on fact. What I saw in the aforementioned individual was something unique and intriguing. He was definitely unlike most people I happen across on a daily basis, but I do not believe this was due to something that made him repulsive or someone to avoid but rather to something that showed his willingness to be himself.

I’m not sure I’m quite getting my point across, so let me just put it this way: please don’t judge someone you haven’t met based on others’ opinions of them, as they have their own reasons for acting as they do. They are human and an individual with their own experiences, just like you, just like me. Just please think about that next time you try to brush someone off prematurely.

…

Well, that was a bit intense. I apologize for getting so deep on a blog page meant for random thoughts and happenings from my life, but I thought it was something that needed to be said. We’re all human and we all deserve respect and acknowledgement from each other.

And with that little tidbit of insight, let me leave you with a piece of questionable wisdom, as you all seem to enjoy:

If you’re attempting to fail at something and you succeed, are you successful or a failure? The answer, of course, is simple: you’re a successful failure (which, honestly, I can relate to on an intense level. Perhaps semi-successful would be more accurate, though…).

This is John H. (why are you all asking? I told you I wouldn’t tell) Watson signing off; Have a great subscribe and don’t forget to night! Byeeeee!

 

Satisfied with his somewhat chaotic composition, John settled deeper into the headboard behind him and pressed “post.” The satisfying dinging sound that he had turned his sound up just to hear, however, was replaced by a large crunching outside his window, followed by the squeal of tires and the dull thud of a small crash. John pursed his lips and closed his eyes, _Harry, what have you gotten yourself into this time?_

When he was finally able to compose himself enough to peer out the window, he found his suspicions confirmed. Harry, too-small shirt disheveled and hair frizzed beyond belief, staggered out from her banged-up Honda SR-V. The mailbox, crumpled like a ball of paper, was lying behind the automobile like it had been run over and dragged by the tailpipe. The front of the automobile was slightly wrinkled, like a nose in disgust, and was shoved against the side of the house, just off-side of the garage. Harry tripped and stumbled over her feet, letting out an unbridled senseless shout as she regained her ground. As she passed by the nose of the SR-V, she pointed at it and mumbled something mostly incoherent from John’s vantagepoint, though he doubted it would be coherent even if he were right next to her. Apparently deciding the damage was no longer an issue, Harry whirled on her heels and made for the front door.

“Bloody hell, Harry.” John mumbled under his breath, shifting the computer off of his lap and rushing downstairs to the front. While he was still on the staircase, he heard the scratching of a key wielding by an uncertain hand against the doorknob and the crack of the door’s joints as it swung open. “What the bloody hell were you thinking, Harry? You could have rammed the house down or squashed yourself in that metal deathtrap. Why didn’t you take a cab or some-” he stopped short as he turned from the foot of the stairwell into the foyer, seeing Harry up close for the first time that night.

Something was off, something was different. She wasn’t just drunk for the sake of it, something was wrong. Her eyes were more bloodshot than normal, rimmed by bleeding cheap eyeliner that had dripped down her cheeks. She smiled like she always did when she was blumbering drunk, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. It couldn’t quite wipe away the story that John knew was lying beneath tonight’s drunken capade. “Hey, buddy!” her words slurred for much longer than usual.

“Harry, what—?”

Harry held up a finger, stepping back a moment and covering her forehead with a hand. “Hang on there, Johnny boy…”

“No, I’m not going to let you—”

“John… nny…” Her eyes squinted and she licked her lips.

“Harry!”

She ducked around, sticking her head back outside, and vommitted. John stood still, wordless, waiting for whatever was to come next. After a moment, she turned back around and collapsed on the foyer rug. Her head lolled against the wall, her body still.

Knowing very well the dangers of choking at a time like this, John immediately grabbed her and pulled her up and against his side, slowly closing the front door and lugging her upstairs towards their shared bathroom. Once they’d reached the toilet, he opened the seat and set her down in front of it. As if by reflex, Harry immediately retched. John ran his hand over her shoulders and back and pulled her hair away from her face, despite his tumultuous mix of anger and concern. After a few moments, Harry spit and pulled her head back a bit.

“I lost her.”

John blinked and his heart cracked. His hand stilled on her back. “Clara?” Harry nodded and then retched again, sickened by the movement. The room was silent aside from Harry’s labored breathing and the steady hum of the overhead fan that John had turned on to freshen the air a bit. John waited in the silence, not wanting to push Harry too far until she was ready to talk. After three or four moments of droning silence, Harry spit again and sucked in a deep breath.

“She said… A few months ago, she said if I didn’t quit, she’d leave… I knew she would. She deserves more. But I kept drinking, couldn’t stop.” Heavy, labored breaths echoed through the porcelain of the toilet. She slammed the base of her palm into the toilet seat, causing the cover to rattle. “Why didn’t I stop? Bloody idiot… now I’ve lost her. No reason to stop now, eh, Johnny? Might as well drink myself to oblivion. Wouldn’t really matter. Who’d care?”

John struggled to gain control of his breathing, which kept hitching at his sister’s words. His hand resumed its movement across her back and he resettled himself against the counter adjacent to the toilet. The air was raw and it burned his throat as he prepared to reply. “I would. And Clara.” Harry scoffed, causing her a close call over the toilet bowl. “She left your drinking, not you.”

Harry turned a crooked smile to her brother, daring to lift her head from its safe haven. “Oh, but look at me Johnny Boy. I am my drinking.”

He gripped her shoulder. “No you’re not. You and your drinking are two completely different things. If you stopped drinking, she might—”  
“Johnny—”

“No, Harry, I’m serious. You love her, don’t you?”

She squinted up at the vanity lights and used the back of her hand to wipe some of the residual grime off of her lips. “That’s some deep shit to ask me while I’m drunk.”

John waved his hands in a dismissing gesture. “Forget me. Forget this situation. Forget the drinking, the agreement, everything. Think about her. Think about Clara.” He watched as Harry’s expression mellowed and her breathing slowed. “Do you love her?”

Harry’s eyelids fluttered closed. She drew in a deep breath through her nose before blowing it out like a puff of smoke. “Yes.”

“And are you willing to do whatever it takes to get her back?”

“John—”

“I know, you couldn’t do it before. But no one was supporting you then. Trust me, you’ll have people this time.”  
Her nose wrinkled as she rocked her head back in confusion. “Who?”

“Just trust me. Are you willing?”

She paused for a moment before shaking her head and sighing. “Yeah.”

A brief smile flickered across John’s lips before he pushed himself up and reached down for Harry’s hand. She winced and took his hand, allowing herself to be very slowly pulled up by her brother. Once Harry was on her feet, John flushed and closed the toilet and walked her down the hallway towards her room before resting her down on her bed. He brought the sheets up around her, like their dad used to do when they were sick. “Get some sleep."

John was sure Harry meant to let loose a slew of words in protest, but all she could muster was a brief grunt as she relaxed into her bed, letting sleep pull her down further and further. He smiled at the childish nature of the moment, reminding him of their innocence so many years ago.

With light footsteps, John padded towards the hallway, shutting Harry’s door behind him with a lightly whispered “Goodnight, Harry.”

And with that, the door clicked closed.

***

Sunday night, John walked into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with Harry for the first time. The meeting was small, held at a local community building, only populated by twenty or so people. Three or four rows of chairs sat facing a small podium at the front, and along the side wall sat a table fully stocked with undoubtedly unhealthy yet nonalcoholic snacks and beverages. Feeling Harry vibrating with fear beside him, he reached down for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. She glanced through the room with glazed, hesitant eyes and moved stiffly and slowly, obviously uncomfortable with her surroundings. Recognizing she would probably want something to eat within the next twenty or thirty minutes but would be too terrified to do so, John proposed that she grab seats for the two of them while he grabbed them a few snacks. She nodded silently and the two split to their own ways.

John’s eyes hungrily devoured the display of food in front of him. Now that he looked closer, most of the food was comprised of chips and pop with just a spattering of fruit and crackers. His and Harry’s plates were mostly full within minutes. As he went to depart for his seat, however, something caught his eye.

Or rather, someone.

Dark curls, tall, lean physique, succinct but somewhat superfluous gestures—

“Sherlock?”

The man spun on his heels, his long coat fluttering magnificently along with him. His face brightened when he noticed John, his lips curling into a smile. “John?”

“I— hi! What are you—?” John stuttered before realizing how far away the two of them still were from each other. He approached a few steps with an awkward gait, stopping a few feet from his new friend. He smiled. “Sherlock Holmes… Hi.”

Sherlock Holmes’s smile brightened. “Watson. John H. Watson.”

John’s heart warmed at the addition and the recognition. “So you’ve read my blog?”

A slight shrug. “Hasn’t everyone?”

Slightly deflated, John replied with “Right.”

“It’s great, though.”

“Really?”

“Well, your grammar, syntax, and phrasing could use some work, but for someone who is a self-proclaimed non-writer, it’s quite good.”

A hearty laugh bubbled from John’s chest. “Oh, so it’s only good for a self-proclaimed non-writer? I suppose you could do much better, Mr. Textbooks?”

“I most certainly could. In fact, I—”

Sherlock Holmes’s beautiful baritone was cut off by a woman at the miniature podium. “We’ll be starting in a few minutes everyone, please head to your seats.” John and Sherlock glanced at one another before starting to thread their way through the room towards the seats. John headed towards Harry, and it appeared that Sherlock was intending to follow him. Not that John minded. Not at all.

However, due to the interruption, their conversation had ceased. Unable to come up with any other conversation starter and curious about the answer anyway, John asked “Why are you here?” He expected some hesitation or even an offended glance to let him know how incredibly personal that question was, but Sherlock Holmes replied quite readily and quickly.

“Because this area has a bloody awful Narcotics Anonymous program and my brother is insufferable.” John paused for a moment, unsure what to say. “I used for a long time, trying to ignore what everyone at the last school thought. I probably actually would still be using now if it weren’t for moving here.”

John grasped onto the only part he knew how to reply to. “How does your brother fit into this, then?”

“Oh, he fancies himself my caretaker. Says he’s worried I’ll slip if I’m not kept accountable. I honestly doubt if any of these tossers would know if I was still using, though, and I’m sure I could just lie my way through the program if I wanted to.”

“But…?”

“But I’m not going to. I’m trying to change, leave it behind. Maybe it’ll do me some good.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Good.”

“I presume you’re here for your sister?” John simply nodded, already surprisingly used to how easily Sherlock Holmes could pick him apart. He nodded over to Harry.

“That’s her.”

Sherlock Holmes’s eyes swept over John’s sister briefly. “It’s her first time.”

“What gave it away, the style of her hair? Her nail polish?”

“Only newbies sit up front.”

John laughed heartily and took his seat next to Harry, looking up expectantly at Sherlock, who only paused a brief moment before taking the seat next to John’s. A brief smile curled at the edge of John’s lips, and Harry noticed. She smiled knowingly, albeit still anxiously, at John before glancing at Sherlock. “Introduce me?” Her voice was light, teasing, and almost suggestive.

John gave her a face. “Harry, this is Sherlock Holmes, a… friend of mine.” _Shoot, did I really just hesitate on “friend”?_

Apparently he did, because when he turned to face Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant boy raised an eyebrow and smirked. _Oh come on… stop it._ After taking a quick breath, he then introduced Harry as his sister, his last words being cut off as the woman at the podium spoke up again, informing everyone that they should now be seated and that they were about to start. The majority of the introductory information blurred past John, even though he knew he should be paying attention for Harry’s sake.

But for goodness sakes, how was he supposed to pay attention when Sherlock Holmes’s leg was resting against his?

Answer: He was not.


	3. One Cream, Two Sugars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is hopeless and hopelessly in love and Sherlock is surprisingly warm-hearted. Lots of fluff ;) 
> 
> (Someday I'll write actual summaries for these things, but today is not that day)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. I promise I'm not abandoning this fic! This chapter is missing John's blogging skills, but I promise they won't be gone for long.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. The ending of this chapter is the sweetest thing I think I have ever written and I'm dying I hope you all love it.
> 
> WARNING: Descriptions of sickness and withdrawal effects in the third scene of this chapter. If you would rather not read that portion, skip to "Am I boring you?" You'll miss a bit of interaction between John and Sherlock, but not much.

****At some point during the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, Sherlock and John ended up swapping phone numbers. John remembered the woman standing at the small podium saying something along the lines of “needing someone who understands to keep you accountable” and he was pretty sure that meant that Harry and Sherlock should be swapping numbers, but instead John found himself handing Sherlock a folded slip of paper with his number on it, Harry trying to contain her smile behind him. Harry, despite John’s protests, claimed that her brother would be her accountability partner for at least the first few weeks, since “John was the only one who was able to convince me to come in the first place.”

John watched his phone like a hawk throughout the rest of the day, not letting ten minutes go by without its lights painting his face as it declared in bold lettering that he had no new messages. Around midnight, however, sleep won over, its pull too strong for his tired body to resist.

Two hours later, John sat up, panicked. His breath was shaky, his palms sweaty. It was as if a nightmare had grabbed him with its ugly claws and threatened to pull him into a dark oblivion, but there had been no such thing. Not even a dream that could have caused such a drastic reaction. He angled his alarm clock towards his face and was bathed in the green glow of its numbers: _02:12_. With a vague burst of hope, John set the alarm clock back in its place, grabbing his phone off his bedside table. He paused a moment, breathing in the thick, dark air, wondering if letting himself keep hope of an incoming message would be better than the disappointment if there was nothing there. He licked his lips, watching his darkened reflection on the glass of his phone screen.

_Screw it._

He unlocked his mobile, wincing as its bright light drowned his sight. Screwing his eyes to a squint, the figures on the screen came into focus. “ _One new message.”_ His heart fluttered. Could it be from Sherlock?

 **Journalism Molly** (Monday 02:12)

Is the creative writing assignment due today or tomorrow? I can’t remember and now it’s 02:12 and I’m half-asleep and I can’t think of a single thing to write about. I really hope it’s due Tuesday, I can’t deal with this right now.

 

John’s heart sank and his gut clenched. Perhaps that was what he had been subconsciously terrified of when he had awoken.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:13)   
Sorry Molly, no idea. Maybe Ms. Thompson could give you an extension?

 

He ran a hand over his face, realizing he probably ought to write his own before falling back asleep, just in case it was due Monday.

 

 **Journalism Molly** (Monday 02:14)

I can’t do that to her. Extensions are always awkward for teachers…

 **Me** (Monday 02:14)

Your other option is writing it tonight, being exhausted tomorrow, and potentially falling asleep in her class

 **Journalism Molly** (Monday 02:15)

I definitely can’t do that to her!

 

John sighed and sat up in his bed, shaking stray hair out of his face. With a half-asleep lunge of sorts, he grabbed his laptop from the table at the foot of his bed and pried it open, its light blinding him in his otherwise pitch-black room. With a strangled sound of malcontent, muffled in an attempt to not awaken his hungover mother down the hall, he turned the computer’s brightness down to its lowest setting and logged in, opening a document.

His fingers tapped lightly on the keys as he pursed his lips, hoping for some strain of creativity to alight upon his half-muddled state of mind. Instead, however, his phone buzzed, drawing his gaze. “ _One new message.”_ With a swipe of his thumb, he unlocked his phone, his breath hitching upon noticing the message’s sender.

 

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:21)

Hello John, it’s Sherlock. If you are texting Molly currently, please encourage her to ignore the creative writing project for the night and ask for an extension. While I myself get very little sleep, I understand that it is important for others and would rather she not fall asleep in our lab tomorrow. -SH

 

A smile began to curl along John’s lips and he bit them in an attempt to normalize his heart rate which had just skyrocketed. Now fully awake, his hands warm and shaking lightly with excitement, he began to type out a reply that he really hoped sounded more casual than he felt.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:21)

Hey Sherlock; I’ve been trying to. She messaged me a few minutes ago but I haven’t heard from her since

 

Realizing his words sounded a tad too formal for his taste, John quickly typed up a second reply.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:21)

By the way, why the signature? I have your number from AA already

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:22)

She has fallen asleep, then. -SH

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:22)

Yes, but I did not expect you to save it. -SH

 

A genuine confusion began to swirl through his mind, near to paralleling his mental state upon first awakening.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:23)

Why?

**Holmes, Sherlock Holmes**

(...)

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:26)

Because most people do not. -SH

 

A surge of protectiveness washed over John, like when he heard about how Sherlock Holmes’s past classmates had treated him and when Mike and Greg thought him worth warning John about.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:27)

I find that hard to believe

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:27)

Well, you are not most people. -SH

 

The smile threatened to tear John’s face in two.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:28)

No?

 **Me** (Monday 02:28)

What am I, then?

**Holmes, Sherlock Holmes**

(...)

**Holmes, Sherlock Holmes**

(...)

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:31)

I suppose, in your words, a friend.

**Me**

_Is that all I am?_

 

His finger hovered over the send button before he quickly deleted his words, his breath deafening as it quickened.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:33)

And so he removes the signature, huzzah!

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:34)

-SH

 **Me** (Monday 02:35)

You did that just to annoy me, didn’t you?

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:35)

Perhaps.

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:35)

But I do wish I could have seen your reaction.

 

John licked his lips and covered his smiling mouth with the back of his hand, thoroughly aware he was fitting the image of a flirting teenager to a T.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:36)

You could always tell me the joke again next Sunday evening

 

_Please don’t let it be that far away._

 

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:37)

Nonsense, that’s nearly a week away.

 **Me** (Monday 02:38)

I have a game on Friday

 **Me** (Monday 02:38)

You could come

 

A pause. A lull in the conversation with no response from the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. _Have I overstepped?_

 

**Holmes, Sherlock Holmes**

(...)

 **Me** (Monday 02:43)

I mean, if you don’t want to, I completely understand

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:47)

No, John. I would love to come.

 

The muscles in John’s shoulder and neck released tension that he didn’t even realize he was carrying.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:48)

Well then, Friday it is.

**Me**

_It’s a date…_

 

He again deleted the words. _Too much too fast._

 

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:48)

Friday.

 

John bit his lips again before releasing them, no longer worrying if the dark saw his flirtations and Sherlock Holmes’s effect on him.

The time blared brightly above his messages with Sherlock Holmes: _02:49_. Remembering the reason the two of them began talking in the first place gave his heart a bit of a tug as he realized he really needed to get a move on that project. Reluctantly, he typed out a closing reply.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:51)

Sorry, Sherlock, but I’m afraid I have to go now. I have that project thing due that Molly had been considering staying up for and I think if I stay awake any longer, I’m going to drop

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:52)

Alright. Goodbye, John. Don’t forget to get some sleep; most people need that sort of thing.

 **Me** (Monday 02:53)

Well, I’m not most people, now am I?

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 02:53)

No, you certainly are not.

 

John’s stomach flipped over a bit.

 

 **Me** (Monday 02:54)

Good night, Sherlock Holmes

 

Determined to finish (well, start and then finish) his project, John set his phone aside upside-down and focused his attention back on the screen in front of him. He tapped his fingers against the keys once more before glancing for a moment at his phone.

With a sort of enthusiasm only attributable to passion, John attacked his keyboard, blotching out words and phrases onto his computer screen.

And if the words turned into phrases that turned into sentences that snaked from line to line that built up paragraphs that sewed together a story that sounded a bit too much like a fantasy world version of him and the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, no one aside from John was any the wiser.

Three and a half pages typed and virtually submitted, John folded up his computer and stowed it by the foot of his bed once again. He pulled the sheets up to his neck and prepared to close his eyes to slip away to a blissful night’s rest for the next few hours, but found himself awakened lightly by a notification from his phone aside him.

With a grin, he read the message, eyes fluttering closed as a joyous bubbling tugged him deeper into a satiated, blissful sleep.

 

 **Holmes, Sherlock Holmes** (Monday 04:46)

Good night, John Watson. -Your friend

***

John Watson’s mind was groggy when he awoke the next day, but his heart was full. He strolled to his locker with his hair ruffled, his shirt untucked, and a smile permanently curving his lips. His eyes, however, kept attempting to close themselves against his own volition, determined to catch a few more moments of sleep, which is probably how he ended up running into Sherlock Holmes standing by his locker.

Or perhaps he was just surprised to see him there.

“Woah there, hello!” Sherlock raised his arms over his head as John plowed into his chest. John stepped back, blinking, confused, before realizing who was in front of him.

“Sherlock Holmes, the one and only.”

A smile curled the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “And Watson, John Watson.” He lowered his hands and proffered an object to John that took John just a moment too long to comprehend.

“Coffee?”

Sherlock raised it towards John, indicating for him to have it while taking a sip of his own. “Yours is, mine’s tea.” John grabbed the coffee, feeling the back of his neck flush slightly as he felt their fingers ghost across each other. “You were up late, which you are unaccustomed to. I figured you might need something to help you stay awake through classes.”

 _He brought me coffee_.

John drew the coffee up to his lips, taking a moment to smell it and appreciate the paper cup’s warmth, before tilting it towards him. Before anything could pass his lips, however, Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled the coffee away from him, causing a drop of hot liquid to splash onto John’s cheek.

“Ouch!” John wiped the liquid off of his cheek and stared inquisitively at Sherlock, who slowly realized he was still holding John’s hand around the coffee cup and flushed slightly before turning towards his backpack and rummaging through it.

“Sorry, sorry. Hang on a moment.” After a moment, he turned back towards John, hands full of creamers and sugars. John stared at the objects for a moment before a smile broke out across his face, encouraging a low chuckle from his chest.

“You grabbed me cream and sugar?”

Sherlock watched him steadily. “I wasn’t sure how you take it.”

John’s smile grew and he watched Sherlock perhaps a bit too flirtatiously, grabbing the additives slowly as he elaborated. “Well, for a cup this size… One cream, two sugars.” Sherlock maintained eye contact and smiled deviously.

“Two sugars-”

However, he never finished his sentence as a whirlwind of short blonde hair swept up in between them. “Odd order for a lad like him, isn’t it? He’s so sweet, he shouldn’t need the sugar.” Mary Morstan grinned up at John, who flushed like he had been caught stealing from the cookie jar. “Oh, come now John, no need to flush like that. You’re quite literally the school sweetheart.”

John laughed slightly uneasily, glanced at an off-put Sherlock Holmes, and turned towards Mary. “Good morning, Mary.”

“Good morning. We still good for Friday?”

Friday. Because he still had a date with her scheduled for Friday night. Because he hadn’t canceled, had already accepted the invitation, and then went and invited Sherlock Holmes to his game that very same date. His heart sank and he felt rather than saw Sherlock shift next to him. This was his chance. He could cancel now and make plans to go somewhere with Sherlock after the game. He could meet the ruggers or they could go somewhere alone-

But he promised Greg and Mike that he would at least try. So, he choked out a “Yup.” and smiled at her as she nodded happily and continued onto her next class. He watched her until she turned down the next hallway, unwilling to meet Sherlock’s eyes until the brilliant bloke cleared his throat. Reluctantly, John turned and looked Sherlock in the eye, but Sherlock immediately averted his gaze to his paper cup of tea and let it linger there for a while.

The bell rang, signaling for them to head to class.

“I should-” Sherlock began before taking a deep breath and walking away, down the hallway where Mary had disappeared. John watched his retreating figure, a twinge of remorse in his gut.

“See you.” He whispered, more to himself than anything, before stuffing his books in his bag and heading to first block.

***

The first thing John noticed when he got home was all of the blinds in the house were closed. He closed the front door with a slight clang and slung his backpack onto the ground, causing a sonorous thunk. The house was otherwise silent. Eerily silent.

Harry should be listening to some music right about now or cooking food or something of the like. At least, given her car was in the garage, she should have said hello. But there was nothing. “Harry?” John called, unsure.

A faint groaning came from upstairs. Slowly, John gripped the hand rail and ascended the steps. “You alright, Harry?” Another groan, louder now, but definitely coming from upstairs. From the bathroom. “Harry?” He quickened his pace and jogged towards the bathroom to find Harry on the floor, in front of the toilet. Her hair, unkempt and greasy, was blocking John’s view of her face, but he could see sweat stains on the back of her shirt and her hands were trembling as she hovered them over the toilet bowl. “Bloody hell, Harry.” He kneeled down next to her and she groaned more quietly, leaning into him as he settled by the toilet bowl.

A retch of sorts came from her throat and she leaned forwards to dispel of the illness inside of her, but nothing came out. She sat there, face over the toilet bowl, hands shaking, body shaking, sweat stains dotting her entire body. John pulled back her hair out of her face to keep it out of the toilet bowl and to look her in the eye.

Her face was pale, practically gaunt, and it hit John like a rock: this was the beginning of her withdrawal. “What do you need, Harry?” His voice was fierce and protective. Another groan.

“Loud—so loud.” Her voice was meek, a whisper, and she collapsed against the bowl, hugging it and shivering and looking absolutely completely miserable.

To think their mother didn’t even know Harry was trying to sober up. _Does she even know that Harry used to drink in the first place?_

Angered by the sudden intrusion of their mother upon his thoughts, John forced his breath to still and quieted his voice to ask again. “What do you need?”

Harry’s body remained shivering against the toilet. Her voice came like an echo through the bowl. “Drink.”

“No, you said you wanted to do this. For Clara. For you.”

She looked up at him from the bowl, her eyes exhausted but fierce. “I need… a drink. I can’t…” Her eyes slid closed and John realized the lights were on in the bathroom, which probably was not helping.

“Yes. You can.”

“No.”

She slid back against the wall behind them, her breaths labored, her skin covered in goosebumps. Her arms, legs, head, hands—everything—was shivering. _Getting her a drink is completely out of the question. But what else in the world can I do?_

Then he remembered. The alcoholics anonymous group. The support numbers. _Sherlock._

“Hang on.” He whispered to Harry, smoothing down her hair and pushing up from the ground to call Sherlock. Before leaving the bathroom, however, he flicked off the light, gaining him an appreciative grunt from his battered sister.

Quickly but quietly, he headed back down into the foyer—as far from Harry as he could get, to ensure he wasn’t too loud—and dialed Sherlock’s number.

 _Pick up, pick up, pick up._ The ringing in his ear from the phone made him more anxious, causing him to realize the seriousness of the situation he was in.

“John?” Sherlock Holmes’s voice answered, sounding every bit as deep and smooth as in person. John felt his shoulders relax a little before remembering why he called.

“My sister, Harry—I think she’s going through a withdrawal. I don’t know what to do, but I figured you might.” Sherlock was silent on the other end of the line, encouraging John to ramble on. “Just cause you know so much and you’ve presumably been going to at least a few of those meetings, and I honestly was not paying attention, and hopefully you know something of how to help because I really don’t and she’s in a bad place right now. Although, now I realize I might be being a bit presumptuous, I don’t know—”

“John.” Sherlock cut him off. “It’s okay, I know how to help.”

John heaved an enormous sigh. “Well. That’s a relief.”

“What are her current symptoms?”

He thought back to Harry on the floor: shaking, gaunt, miserable. “She’s incredibly pale, I believe she has a headache, she’s shaking all over, and she keeps half-throwing up.”

“Okay. Do you have any vitamin B, C, or E supplements?”

“Hang on, let me check.” Putting Sherlock on speaker, he padded slowly into the kitchen and opened his family’s medicine cabinet to rifle through its contents. “No B, C, or E, but we have multivitamin gummies that my mum used to have us take. Would those work?”

“Yes. Grab a few of those.” John emptied a few into his hand, realizing with a start that he himself was shaking with adrenaline, and then capped the bottle as Sherlock continued. “It sounds like she’s approximately 48 hours in. When was the last time she ate?”

A retching sound from upstairs, following by strangled coughing and a few deep breaths. John’s heart rate quickly increased and he found himself standing around doing practically nothing while his sister was practically wasting away just upstairs. “I—I don’t know. Breakfast, maybe? I left before she woke up.” More retching. He covered the microphone on his phone and chanced a yell up to Harry. “Are you alright?” Only a muffled nothingness of a reply. “Keep leaning forwards, don’t choke!” Gulping harshly, he uncovered his microphone. “Should I be worried? Can people die from withdrawal? They can, I know they can, I’ve seen it on telly in those crap shows. Bloody hell, that’s why they have rehab centers, and I had to go and convince myself that I could do this all on my-”

“John, stop.” Immediately, John stopped talking, his breath in his throat. Over the line, Sherlock took a shaky breath. “She will not die unless she chokes. I do not think she’s that far gone into her alcoholism, and you can do this, but you have to listen to me. Okay?”

Now John pulled in a shaky breath. “Okay. What else do I do?”

“Food and water.” His voice came through the line authoritative and sure. “It doesn’t sound like she’s eaten in a while and her body can’t fight the alcohol’s toxins without food. Nothing too substantial yet, though. Do you have broth, gelatin, or ice pops?”

“No ice pops or gelatin, but we might have a can of soup?” He rifled through the pantry until he found a can of chicken noodle soup. “Yes, we have soup. Chicken noodle.”

“Good. Heat that up and then pour her the broth and a glass of water.”

John poured the cold soup into a bowl and set the microwave timer for three minutes, as per the can’s directions. He leaned against the countertop and closed his eyes for a moment and suddenly everything felt incredibly quiet. Harry had temporarily stopped retching in favor of quiet labored breathing, the microwave was humming lowly, and the sound from Sherlock’s end of the line had dwindled to the slight sound of his breath, crackled by reception.

“Sherlock?” John murmured, his eyes still closed.

“Yes, John?” His voice was quiet now, too.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And for a moment, John could swear that he heard a smile in that brilliant boy’s voice. He sighed lightly, lulling against the countertop and the cupboards, listening to Harry’s labored breathing, the microwave’s humming, and Sherlock Holmes’s soft, calming breathing.

And then the microwave dinged and the spell was broken.

He quietly poured the broth for Harry, filled a glass of water for her, and brought the food, water, and multivitamins upstairs for her. Sherlock stayed silent on the other end of the line the entire time.

For the next two and a half hours, John sat by Harry as she slowly consumed the broth and water, occasionally retching and settling against John’s shoulder in a shivering mass. When needed, Sherlock suggested different ways to help her through the withdrawal, but he otherwise sat silent, listening as John helped bring Harry through her pain.

Once it seemed Harry’s stomach had reached an equilibrium, John set her on her side on her bed and left her to rest, opting himself to sit against the wall just outside her room, in case she needed him at any point throughout the night. He pressed his back against the wall and stretched his toes out in front of him, yawning lightly as the exhaustion he’d been avoiding began to overtake him.

“Am I boring you?” Sherlock Holmes’s teasing, deep baritone came from the other end of the line, lulling John even deeper into a sense of serenity.

“I don’t believe that’s even possible.” John’s voice was barely a whisper in an effort to let Harry rest.

“Is that so?”

John hummed. “There’s always something with you.” A comfortable silence passed between them as John found himself slowly drifting asleep.

“If you fall asleep on me, I am going to assume you will need another coffee in the morning.” Sherlock Holmes’s smile poured through his voice like honey.

John opened his eyes slightly and shot a teasing grin at his mobile. “Oh, was that not going to be a reoccurring thing?”

Sherlock Holmes paused for a moment before replying, his voice quieter than before. “It can be if you’d like. Especially now that I know your coffee order.”

John bit his lip as it curved into a sleepy smile. “Oh, you remember, now do you?”

“Of course.” He sounded almost offended before returning to his quiet tone. “How could I forget? One cream, two sugars.”

The smile won and John brought his phone closer to his face. “You do remember.”

“As I said, of course.”

A pleasant sort of turmoil began to stir through John’s stomach and his mind began to mist over, covering all thoughts unrelated to the brilliant, bloody beautiful Sherlock Holmes. A long silence stretched between the two of them again before John spoke. “It wouldn’t be quite fair for you if you just bought every day, though. Perhaps I should start bringing you coffee, too. Or tea, if you’d prefer.”

“You really don’t have-”

“I want to. Honestly. How do you take it?”

The brilliant boy smiled again, his voice honey and his words like the stars from the night they met. “Black tea with milk and honey.”

 _Honey. Just like his voice. Just like him._ “But you don’t the tea- er, honey,” his voice had begun slurring from the tendrils of sleep pulling him down, “‘cause you already so sweet…”

An honest-to-goodness chuckle sounded from the other end of the line: deep, smooth, and calming. The smile like honey returned. “Good night, John.”

John’s head lulled against his shoulder, the last traces of a smile painting his lips. “G’night, Sh’lock Holmes.”

That night, John Watson dreamed of the stars, a land of honey, and the sound of Sherlock Holmes’s laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey y'all!

Do you guys get updates when I edit these? I'm not entirely sure, so y'all'll have to let me know.

I think I may have been a bit hasty in deciding to end this series yesterday; I honestly believed that no one liked this fic anymore, and I didn't want to spend the time furthering the universe if it was going to just take up space on AO3 (or, in John-speak, just be a shout into the endless void that is the internet). That being said, ACOC is offically GO (again). Watch for the REAL chapter four to be uploaded within the next few weeks (ideally I'd finish it by the end of this week, but I have a ton of work to do within the next few days). 

Huge thanks to all of you; you guys really helped me pull through and truly convinced me to keep going on this.

Stay awesome,

~Forever_the_Dreamer

 

~~Hello friends!~~

~~Perhaps this is the wrong place to announce this, but I am no longer posting this fic as it seems no one is enjoying it (also, Martin Freeman was very adamant in a recent interview that he and Benedict Cumberbatch have never played lovers). Thank you for the love while it existed.~~


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